


Redwood and Dandelion

by sharkhette



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst and Humor, Bathing/Washing, Biting, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Falling In Love, Fate & Destiny, Fluff and Angst, Hair Washing, Love Confessions, Love at First Sight, Lovers to Friends, M/M, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Prostitute Jaskier | Dandelion, Prostitution, Scenting, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-22 10:16:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22681252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkhette/pseuds/sharkhette
Summary: "The Witcher's bought a room for the night, and says he'll pay double for anyone who can bed him without stinking of fear the whole time.""Oh, I've fucking got this," Jaskier promised.____________Or, the one where Jaskier works in a brothel and falls head over heels for the stoic, not-actually-that-scary Witcher who comes in requesting his services.Geralt doesn't know what he's getting himself into.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 168
Kudos: 6723





	Redwood and Dandelion

The brothel where Jaskier worked was an upscale establishment, because he appreciated the finer things in life, even if he was earning them on his back. It wasn't such a terrible way to make a living, not when the high price point deterred most of the rougher, less savoury clients, and the bawd had a vested interest in keeping her girls happy and safe.

Well—her girls and Jaskier.

He was the only man working there, which suited him just fine. Most nights, he provided entertainment by way of his lute and his voice, fully clothed and almost respectable. On the rare nights a john came in looking for a cock rather than a cunt, they generally knew better than to rough him up in the process of bedding him. If they didn't know, they quickly learned, and the bawd barred them from any return visits.

So truly, it wasn't the worst way to earn a few coins. Jaskier had a warm bed, a roof over his head, and all the sex he could possibly desire, and now that his debts were paid, he was free to pick and choose which clients he wanted, and turn away those he found distasteful.

He didn't turn away very many. In most cases, even a shoddy lay was better than no lay at all.

And if it was a living that most others judged or sneered at, well, he had learned to adapt. He had run from the aristocracy long ago, even before he'd accrued the debts that had pushed him onto his knees or between the sheets, and it wasn't so different anyway, whoring and entertaining. Would he have preferred singing of knights and kings and the occasional wanton maiden? Certainly. But, like a weed, he managed to thrive in all manner of situations that might have withered a more delicate soul.

The night the Witcher came to the brothel, Jaskier hadn't had anyone in over a week, excluding the few times he'd tumbled his colleagues out of equal parts boredom and attraction. It was fun, but it didn't quite scratch the itch that came from bedding a total stranger, learning their desires by touch and taste as he went along.

And the Witcher was very much a stranger.

Jaskier spied on him through the beaded curtain that separated the sitting room, where he and the girls gathered nightly, from the entrance where the guard and the bawd greeted each visitor. The Witcher was tall and solidly built, the kind of frame that spoke of violence and the long hours spent perfecting it, with windswept white hair turned silver in the darkness, heavy leather armour and a deceptively light tread.

"Fuck me, that's the Butcher of Blaviken."

Beside him, Ana gasped, one hand over her mouth as she peered over his shoulder. "They say he slaughtered a dozen men in the streets."

"They also say he's hung like a horse," Jaskier countered, not taking his gaze off the man—if the Witcher could be called a man at all—discussing terms with the bawd in a low voice. "Do you think he's come here to kill us, or fuck us?"

"He's a Witcher. Do you think he knows the difference?"

"I'll let you know come morning," he replied sunnily.

They both pulled back from the curtain at the bawd's approach, her heels ringing out over the floorboards. Parting the beads with an imperious wave of one hand, she fixed them all with a steely look.

"The Witcher's bought a room for the night, and says he'll pay double for anyone who can bed him without stinking of fear the whole time."

"Oh, I've fucking got this," Jaskier promised.

She sighed. "Alright, line up and look sharp. Let him get a look at you. And for the love of the gods, keep your mouths shut. I could hear you whispering back here when he came in the door."

"If you could, he definitely could," Jaskier pointed out. "Enhanced senses, and all that."

The bawd pinched the bridge of her nose before turning and beckoning the Witcher into the room. "See what pleases you, sir, and take your pick."

The Witcher wasn't what Jaskier had expected. He knew all too well that appearances could, and often were, deceiving—he couldn't count the number of times a handsome young lord smelling of sweet perfume and bedecked in silks and gold had taken him for a tumble, only to leave him wholly unsatisfied. Looks had no bearing on ability, in or out of bed.

Not that the Witcher didn't look capable. He did—intimidatingly so, all broad shoulders and solid muscle, moving with animal grace and regarding them with cool, golden eyes. But Jaskier had thought he would look older, or more ragged, disfigured by scars, maybe, or holding back a barely contained rage. People told all kinds of stories about Witchers, and the Butcher of Blaviken especially.

But the sight of him didn't inspire fear. Maybe it should have, but Jaskier's sense of self-preservation had always been lacking. No, what he actually inspired was…

Well.

Jaskier surreptitiously shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Being so easily attracted to anyone and everyone was a blessing in his line of work, but he did wish he weren't always so bloody obvious about it.

But there was something else, too, buried under the arousal. A sense of familiarity, almost, a tugging from behind his ribs, like a flower turning towards the sun—but Jaskier had never met the man before, nor any other Witcher. There was nothing familiar about him.

The Witcher turned to look at him unblinkingly. They studied each other for a moment, and Jaskier took the time to memorize his face, his stance, the way he stood so still yet seemed to contain a tightly coiled energy, like a panther waiting out its prey.

Jaskier was more than willing to be that prey. Gods above, was he willing.

"You," said the Witcher.

"Me," Jaskier agreed.

The Witcher turned without another word, heading for the stairs to climb to his appointed room. Jaskier threw a wink to his companions before trotting after him, anticipation blooming as he followed his Witcher up the stairs.

Those trousers were tight, though. Oiled leather that looked soft as butter, and gods, what an arse. It was rare that anyone half so attractive came to patronize their fine establishment, and rarer still that they chose Jaskier. And for Jaskier to actually be excited by the prospect of taking his client to bed? Nigh unheard of. Oh, he was always _enthusiastic_ , to be sure—but that wasn't quite the same thing. Looking forward to an orgasm (sometimes faked, and otherwise most often by his own hand) and looking forward to actually climbing a man like a tree were two very different beasts. Jaskier smiled brightly as he traipsed into the room behind his client.

It was spacious and lavishly furnished, with a great wide bed piled thick with furs, and a bath large enough for two (or three, for those with enough coin) waiting in the corner, its water still steaming. Rugs overlapped one another on the floor, and velvet curtains hung over the window, which, during the day, offered a pleasing view of the city's rooftops and steeples. Few clients bothered to appreciate the scenery, of course, but Jaskier liked a room with a view. He'd never stayed in one place for so long since he'd ensconced himself at the brothel, and some days the thought of new towns and open roads tugged at him harder than others. The windows helped, those days.

The Witcher ignored the curtains and the window, though he gave the room a cursory investigation which seemed more habitual than out of curiosity. Checking for exits or vantage points or hidden assassins, perhaps. Jaskier waited in the middle of the room, content to watch him until he settled.

Finally, the Witcher stilled, half-turned to face Jaskier with his back to the bed.

"What's your name?" he asked. His voice was lovely, low and rough like he was used to threatening people, and even more used to not speaking at all. It hit just the right pitch to send shivers down Jaskier's spine.

"Jaskier, at your service. Shall I call you Master Witcher this evening, or do you prefer something more…personable?"

Jaskier knew his name. Everyone knew Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken. But clients often preferred to play at anonymity, and he could respect that. It's not as if Jaskier was his given name, after all, though he'd used it for so long that it felt realer than the old name that came with a title attached.

"Geralt."

"Geralt? Lovely. Nice to meet you." He sidled closer, making sure to sway his hips as he moved, dropping his voice to a sultrier tone. "Now, why don't you tell me how you'd like to spend your evening? You've got the pleasure of my company for the whole night, so your options are…wide open, as it were."

Geralt just snorted and began unfastening the clasps of his armour. "Right now, my priority is that bath. Everything else can wait."

"How unimaginative. Here, let me help."

Jaskier walked straight into his space without hesitation, reaching for the buckles that held his shoulder pieces in place. The leather was stiff and the clasps were uncooperative, but he hadn't spent so long playing the lute for his fingers to fail him now. Geralt held still, bemused, as Jaskier tugged the first piece free and set it aside on the floor at their feet.

"So?" Jaskier prompted, making quick work of the armour now that he knew how to work the buckles loose. "Tell me what you like. What do you want tonight, other than your bath?"

"Peace and quiet."

"Eh, should've chosen Rebecca for that. The redhead," he added helpfully.

Geralt grunted. "She was afraid of me."

"Lise could have taken you on," Jaskier continued contemplatively, moving on from the shoulder pieces to the breastplate. Lise had been tense, but she hadn't been afraid like Ana had been.

Geralt unstrapped the swords on his back, shrugging out of the harness that held them in place before allowing Jaskier to continue. "They were all either nervous or scared to death. I don't want that."

"Well then, you'll have to make the best of what you've got."

Jaskier dropped the last of the armour and curled his fingers around Geralt's shirt collar. The material was worn soft, open at the chest and just begging to be torn off to reveal the body underneath that Jaskier frankly couldn't wait to get his hands on—if only the Witcher would give him some sign that he was actually interested, rather than standing there watching Jaskier like he couldn't figure out what to make of him.

Jaskier prodded him in the chest. "Are you just enjoying the view, or?"

Geralt looked unimpressed. "You talk too much."

"Yeah, so I've been told. But you don't talk nearly enough. I'm not a mind reader—am I supposed to guess what you want from me?"

"I told you. I'm taking a bath."

Geralt took a step back, just far enough to pull his shirt over his head. Jaskier let his jaw drop.

"Gods above. I was going to ask if you enjoyed the Witchering business, but I can see that the lifestyle agrees with you." Except for the scars, maybe, but there was no need to bring those up. Yet. It was a miracle the man's face had escaped relatively unscathed.

Geralt just grunted before flicking open his belt and stepping out of his trousers. How a man so large could get out of trousers so tight without tripping over himself, Jaskier had no idea. There was a reason he preferred looser styles, himself—much easier to get in and out of, and not to mention more comfortable around the delicate bits.

His train of thought didn't get much further than that, because high heaven have mercy, Geralt lived up to every legend Jaskier had ever heard.

"Just to be clear," Jaskier said faintly, "you _are_ going to fuck me tonight, yes?"

Geralt glanced at him for a bare second before stepping into the bath. "Yes."

Jaskier blew out his breath. "Good. That's good. That's excellent. Because—has anyone ever told you this? Your body is—whew. Wow. I mean—really, it's slightly unnecessary, if I'm being honest. No man _needs_ to look like _that._ It's hardly fair. I'm going to compose an entire ballad to your biceps by the end of the night, just so you know."

Geralt sank into the water. "No."

"I'm going to wax lyrical about your abs."

"Don't."

"I'll pen sonnets to your cock."

Geralt looked exasperated.

Jaskier bit back a smile. "Or," he offered, slinking up to the side of the bath. "You could give me something better to do with my mouth."

He didn't get turned down flat that time. Maybe it was just because Geralt was finally soaking in the steaming-hot water, but he tilted his head to one side like a bird of prey and spread his arms over the rim of the bath, regarding Jaskier with a cool, assessing air. It shouldn't have made Jaskier so helplessly hot, being looked at like a tender morsel of prey, but fuck him sideways. He was easy. It's why he was good at what he did.

"That's the longest you've been quiet since we got up here," Geralt observed.

The more words Jaskier could pull out of him, the better he got at reading the Witcher's tone. That, there, was a warm thread of amusement underneath the barb, and it lit a grin on his face. He wanted to find out what else he could make Geralt's voice do. The Witcher wasn't going to be much of a talker during sex, that was glaringly and painfully obvious, but Jaskier talked enough for at least two people anyway. He wanted to pull a growl out of him, though. If he could make him moan—

His stomach flipped at the mere thought.

Picking up a box of bath salts, Jaskier sauntered closer. "You could always gag me," he suggested. "But something tells me, despite your endless protests, that you actually like the sound of my voice." He sprinkled a handful of salt into the water with a flourish. Geralt looked at him balefully. "Oh, stop playing so hard to get. You chose me, after all."

Setting the box aside, Jaskier traipsed around the bath to stand at the Witcher's back, not missing the way Geralt's shoulders tensed infinitesimally at the new position. Less than ideal, but fine. It was hardly the first time Jaskier had had to coax a man into relaxation. Humming a soft tune, he settled on the edge of the bath and rested his hands on the Witcher's shoulders.

At the first touch of skin on skin, a shock jolted through him like lightning and he flinched back, not hurt but startled. Geralt tensed, his muscles locked in place, but he didn't say a word, so carefully, Jaskier returned his hands to his shoulders. The shock didn't come again, and if Geralt was going to pretend nothing had happened, so could he. It probably didn't mean anything, anyway.

Though he remained tense, Geralt didn't move out from under him. With a pleased smile, Jaskier began kneading the knotted muscles there, humming a little louder, and gradually, Geralt began to unwind.

When Jaskier judged him relaxed enough, he said, "Duck your head down, let me wash your hair."

Geralt grunted, but—wonder of wonders—he obeyed, submerging his head and lifting it a moment later, his hair hanging heavy with water.

"You're filthy; do you know that?" Jaskier asked, moving his hands to the Witcher's head, scratching his clever fingers against his scalp. He was good at this; his fingertips were calloused from years of contact with lute strings, and dexterous, besides. He knew just how to touch a body—any body, anywhere—to make them feel good, and hair washing was naturally intimate. The Witcher was helpless against his talents.

"I killed a kikimora in the last town," Geralt said flatly. "They paid me for it but didn't have a room for me to sleep."

"What gratitude. Well, it's a good thing you came here. And not just because we could offer you a bath."

"Hm."

Jaskier pressed his fingers in a little harder and was finally rewarded with a low, pleased-sounding hum.

"I never thought you were all that scary, personally. Witchers, I mean."

"I can see that."

"You go out there, risking your life to keep the rest of us safe—you'd think we could repay you with something better than a few grudging coins and a load of crass rumours."

"It's my job."

"Well, I, personally, am very grateful." Jaskier dropped his arms around Geralt's neck, leaning in to press his lips to the shell of his ear. "Would you like me to show you just how much I appreciate your services?"

Geralt half turned towards him, making no attempt to escape the loose circle of Jaskier's arms, and Jaskier's heart leapt at the prospect of finally getting a taste of the man—

But Geralt only said, "I thought you were washing my hair."

Jaskier huffed and released him, standing to set his hands on his hips. From the bath, Geralt watched in quiet amusement.

"Yes, fine, I will finish washing your hair, but first, answer me this: You said you were going to fuck me, but I get the sense that you don't really care about that. Did you hire me for the night just as an excuse to get a nice bath? I can't blame you for it—you desperately need one—but there are cheaper places to get clean. Is it just company you want?"

"I have my horse for company."

"Yes, but there are things you can do with a person you can't do with a horse. Well—I say can't. I mean shouldn't."

For a long moment, Geralt didn't answer. Finally, he said, "You're not afraid of me."

"No. You can smell that, can't you?" Jaskier bit his tongue before he could add, _Like a wolf._

"Fear smells sour. Like sweat and panic."

"Not much of a turn-on. What else can you smell?"

"Arousal." Geralt looked him up and down. "I know you're telling the truth when you say you want me to fuck you."

"Well, yes. Have you seen yourself?" Jaskier paused. "Have you just been waiting for the other shoe to drop? Like, I'd suddenly come to my senses and realize you're the monster everyone says you are, and high-tail it out of here?"

"Or shut your mouth and take it anyway." Geralt's mouth twisted to one side. "That one is worse. Where they pretend they're fine with it, because they need the money, but they're shit liars."

"I couldn't lie to you," Jaskier pointed out. "Not with you sniffing around like that. So." He leaned in, planting both hands on the edge of the bath, bringing his face level with Geralt's. Close enough to see the lines on his face, map the scars that littered his skin, see his own reflection in the dark amber of his glowing eyes. "I find you attractive. I want you to fuck me. And I'm not scared of any of it. Am I lying?"

"Hm."

"Hm," Jaskier agreed, and, straightening, set to work shedding his clothes. "Don't worry," he added, as he stepped out of his trousers and kicked them aside. "I am going to finish your hair. I just thought we might move things along while I did it. Multitasking, you know?"

Naked as the day he was born, he flashed Geralt a bright smile before climbing over the edge of the bath to settle into the water. Still deliciously warm, and made warmer by the bulk of the Witcher's body. Inching forward on his knees, Jaskier deposited himself directly into Geralt's lap, straddling his frankly enormous thighs and dropping his arms around his neck. Geralt moved his hands from where they rested against the rim of the bath to hold onto Jaskier's hips, seemingly more driven by instinct than any sudden need to get close to him. Jaskier shrugged internally. He'd take what he could get, and if Geralt wasn't pushing him away—

"Did you know you have intestines tangled in your hair?" he asked conversationally, running his fingers through the knot in question.

"Yes," Geralt grunted.

"Kikimora, or something older?"

He shrugged.

"Lovely."

Reaching around him, Jaskier located a bar of scented soap and scrubbed it over Geralt's scalp, ignoring the noise of protest the Witcher made. He had meant the hair-washing to be sexy and intimate, but he was not about to fuck a man wearing something's internal organs as a hat, no matter how attractive the man or how much he was getting paid. Some things took priority.

"Hold still," he muttered, clenching his thighs around Geralt's as if he could hold him still like that. The man's legs were like tree trunks, they were so thick. "This is disgusting, let me just—"

Geralt suffered his ministrations with surprising patience, allowing Jaskier to work his hair this way and that, rubbing at him with the soap and finally dousing his entire head with water. He heaved a sigh, but he never moved to dislodge Jaskier from his lap.

"Better," Jaskier determined. "And look at that: the water hasn't even turned black from your layers of filth. A miracle."

"Happy now?"

"Yes, actually." Bracing his hands on the Witcher's shoulders, Jaskier looked down at him. "And I can tell you're feeling better for it, unless that’s a sword you smuggled into the bath with you."

Geralt rolled his eyes and Jaskier grinned.

"No, I thought not. Oh, stop looking like such a martyr. I'm sure I can think of something to do with you."

Jaskier, of course, had been at half-mast since hitting the water, and only grown more attentive the longer he stayed pressed up against Geralt's body. The Witcher ran hot, like a natural furnace, though his pulse was so slow Jaskier might have thought him comatose were it not for the very stiff evidence of his interest. Pleased by the reaction, Jaskier turned his smile up a notch and offered up a slow, rolling rhythm of his hips against Geralt's.

"Not that I don't love a good soak, but if we moved things to the bed, I could blow you."

"Mm."

"Just an option." Jaskier glanced down. "Maybe sooner than later? I think that's a bit of kikimora floating in the water, and I don't love the thought of getting intimate with it."

"Fair enough."

Geralt stood, hooking Jaskier under the thighs and lifting him up in a single motion. Jaskier yelped and flung his arms delightedly around Geralt's neck, holding on tight with his knees as Geralt stepped out of the bath, carrying him like he weighed nothing at all.

"This is _unfair_ ," Jaskier gasped. "We're practically the same height, how do you—"

Geralt cut him off by dropping him onto the bed in a heap of limbs, which Jaskier had to admit was more of a turn-on than it should have been.

"You have no muscle mass," Geralt said flatly. "Have you ever even lifted a sword?"

"I'll have you know I've handled plenty of swords, thank you. In fact, I was just about to handle yours."

Jaskier held out one arm, beckoning him down to the bed. Geralt stepped closer, though not quite within reach, looking more amused than annoyed. But, listen—it was hard to look any kind of serious standing stark naked, dripping wet, and half hard. Not that Jaskier was laughing. His breath seemed to have got caught in his throat, in fact, and speechlessness wasn't something he was used to. The number of men he'd bedded at the brothel—the number of bodies he'd seen, and touched, and tasted, fucked and been fucked by—

After all this time, it wasn't fair that anyone should reduce him to _wanting_ like this.

"Can I kiss you?" he blurted, then was immediately mortified.

But something in Geralt's expression softened, and he finally came within reach. He stayed standing, waiting until Jaskier climbed to his knees so they were face to face again. Geralt's hair hung in his face in wet tendrils; tiny rivulets of water ran from his temples to his chin, mapping the planes and angles of his cheeks and jaws. His eyes glowed gold, soft and patient as Jaskier studied him, one hand on the Witcher's chest and the other hovering beside his face. Jaskier knew he could touch—knew the whole point of him being there was to touch—but there was something wild and ancient about the Witcher that held him back. It was like looking a wolf in the eye: he could recognize something of the tame dog in there, but it was so far removed as to be in a whole other world.

"Oh, fuck it," he whispered, and leaned in to press their lips together.

It was electrifying. It was like every other kiss he'd ever had was burned away, like they'd never mattered and could never compare.

Geralt kissed him back firmly, without hesitation, one hand coming up to cup Jaskier's face, the other settling back at his hip. He tasted like bonfire smoke and salt water and, underneath that, a little like blood, which Jaskier was trying not to think about. He wanted to focus on the wet heat of Geralt's mouth, the slide of his tongue and the way that he smiled against Jaskier's mouth when Jaskier nipped at him, teasing, just to see what he would do.

It was Geralt who moved first, sliding his hand from Jaskier's hip to his cock, wrapping his fingers firmly around it and eliciting a smothered gasp.

"Get down here," Jaskier murmured against Geralt's lips. "Perfectly good bed. Stop standing."

Geralt allowed himself to be pulled down, bracing himself against the bed with one knee as he pushed Jaskier down under him. Jaskier went willingly, wishing Geralt still had his shirt on, if only to give him something to hold onto. The Witcher was all impossibly broad shoulders, cut abs and thick biceps, acres of pale, scarred skin that Jaskier could barely get his arms around. It made it difficult to hang onto the man and get him in the position Jaskier wanted—namely, on his back, sprawled out for Jaskier to admire and finally—finally!—get his mouth on.

"Fuck's sake, you'd think you didn't want me to suck you off," he muttered, earning a smile from Geralt.

"Go ahead. Anything to shut you up for a minute."

"Oh, are you planning to finish that quickly?"

Geralt put one hand in the middle of Jaskier's chest and shoved, pinning him to the bed in a single move. Breathless, Jaskier stared up at him, hot all over and far too obviously bothered.

"Get on with it already, if you want it so much."

"You absolute brute. Yes, fine, I _will_ get on with it. Move." Scrambling up, Jaskier shoved and pulled Geralt into position, laying him out flat with his head on the pillow, propped up on one elbow. "Now stay," he said sternly, flattening himself to lay between Geralt's thighs.

Up close, his cock was even more impressive. Jaskier gave it an experimental stroke, and was gratified to see Geralt immediately melt under the first touch.

"Good," he said approvingly, and then set to work seeing how much of it he could fit in his mouth.

After some efforts, he had to conclude that the answer was, sadly, not very much at all.

"Short of unhinging my jaw like a snake, I don't know how much of this I can actually take," Jaskier said apologetically. "Was this one of your magical Witcher-potion side effects, or are you naturally this well-endowed?"

"You'd have to ask the other Witchers to compare," Geralt deadpanned.

Somehow, Jaskier doubted they could measure up.

"Well, never let it be said that I don't try my best. I won't be singing tomorrow night, in any case."

"You don't have to—"

"Shut up, of course I do."

He eventually found a rhythm in which he stuffed as much into his mouth as he could, and worked the rest with his fist, moving both up and down in tandem until the Witcher was panting, and gods, but what a thrill to reduce a man to _that_. It spurred him on faster, and alright, it was far from the best blowjob he'd ever given—he was drooling more than he'd like, and he really was a bit upset that he couldn't deepthroat the bastard, as it reflected poorly on his skills—but from the noises Geralt was making, it didn't seem to be a problem. Geralt's chest was heaving, his hands clenched into fists in the sheets, but he was altogether far better behaved than Jaskier had expected. Maybe the only reason he wasn't actively fucking Jaskier's mouth was that he didn't want to choke him to death, which, fine, Jaskier could appreciate, but—

He pulled off with a wet pop, folding his arms over Geralt's thighs. The Witcher looked at him, bewildered.

"You can pull my hair, if you like," Jaskier said matter-of-factly. "I like that." And then he sank straight back down onto his cock as if he hadn't spoken at all.

"Fuck," Geralt groaned, but he moved both hands to Jaskier's head, petting him for a second before tangling his fingers in his hair and holding on tight.

It sent shivers across his scalp and Jaskier hummed appreciatively, running scales (less sexy and more habitual, unfortunately), and moving his tongue just so to make sure Geralt knew how good it felt, until Geralt swore and tried to tug him off.

"Wait, wait—"

Jaskier took him an extra inch, glancing up just long enough to see Geralt's face as he came. Jaskier swallowed, because he could do that much, at least, and sucked him through the aftershocks before pulling off.

"I told you to wait," Geralt said, but he didn't look overly upset.

"Sorry," Jaskier said innocently, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I got caught up in the moment." He laid Geralt's cock down against his thigh, where it twitched once more before going soft. "You know the stories they tell about Witcher stamina…"

"I'm not getting it up again that quickly."

Jaskier gave it an appreciative pat before crawling up the bed to sprawl beside Geralt on the pillows. He crooked one elbow under him, propping his head up in his hand as he lay on his side to watch the Witcher, who—oh, fuck, his eyes were already drifting closed. He was one of those, then.

Jaskier prodded him in the shoulder and was rewarded with a long blink.

"Are you falling asleep already?"

"Mmhm."

"This is less than impressive. The one chance I might ever have to get a Witcher in my bed, and you're going to spend it sleeping!"

"Should've thought of that before deciding not to wait. I could be fucking you right now, but you had to finish me off too soon."

Jaskier's jaw dropped.

Geralt cracked one eye open. "You want me to get you off?"

"No, I can take care of myself, thanks."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself." And, to all appearances, drifted straight into sleep.

Jaskier studied him. He needed the rest, clearly—even freshly bathed and glowing with that post-orgasmic haze, he looked exhausted. The last town hadn't let him stop there; Jaskier wondered how many other towns before that had hired him, let him kill their monsters, and then driven him back onto the road. Too many, he warranted. It was unjust, is what it was. Even setting aside Jaskier's apparent bias for the Witcher, who could meet him and dismiss him as no better than the beasts he hunted?

So, Jaskier let him sleep. He could wait for another chance to ride him like a pony; they had all night, after all. It's not like he was achingly hard and unsatisfied.

"Fuck," he muttered, shifting around to rub himself against the sheets.

He'd been such an idiot to pass up that offer. Not that being left unfinished was anything unusual. Though he always tried his level best to get off alongside his clients, their pleasure was his priority, and sometimes they didn't care to return the favour. That was fine. At least Geralt had offered. And Jaskier had no doubt he'd have made good on it, too. He was a considerate partner, really, willing to meet Jaskier halfway. Kissing him when he asked, pulling his hair just right—

"Fuck," Jaskier repeated, with slightly more feeling.

He recognized that swoop of butterflies in his stomach, the way they warmed him from the inside out. Idiot, idiot! He knew better than to fall for his clients. He'd even steeled himself against the regulars, the ones who met him with a smile and a kiss. The ones who made him feel wanted, cherished. It wasn't real outside the bedroom, and he knew that. He'd built up walls around his spaniel heart.

But apparently all it took to crumble them was an hour with a taciturn Witcher who wasn't nearly so hard on the inside as he looked from without (and he _was_ hard: Jaskier had firsthand proof of just how hard he could get). The man had walked in all stoic and steely-eyed and covered in blood and guts, absolutely disgusting, and apparently—apparently, that did it for Jaskier.

And then there was that other feeling simmering underneath it, drawing him to the Witcher like a magnet before they'd spoken a single word to each other. Something stronger than an infatuation born of endorphins and serotonin, something older and far harder to fight.

Well, shit. Alright.

"I can tell you're going to be terrible for me," Jaskier said softly, reaching over to smooth Geralt's hair back from his face.

"Hm?" Geralt said, barely stirring.

"I'm singing you a lullaby. Hush."

He began to hum, more to keep himself from saying anything ridiculous or incriminating than out of any belief that Geralt of Rivia needed a song to lull him to sleep. The tune was an old one, half-remembered from his childhood, rocked in his mother's lap. Something about yellow flowers dancing in the sun. When he couldn't recall the words, he sang shapeless sounds, soft and barely more than a whisper, one hand resting on Geralt's chest as it rose and fell with his steady breaths. When he ran out of one song, he trailed into another, until Geralt finally groaned and opened his eyes.

"Singing."

"Yes, I've been gracing you with the beauty of my voice. You're welcome."

Apparently resigning himself to wakefulness, Geralt sat up, leaning back against the headboard. "You trained for it?"

"I was a bard, before this, though I never managed to make much of a name for myself."

"You earn better coin whoring than singing?"

"A bard without a muse is like a whore without a cunt. Not impossible to earn a living without, but it does make things more challenging."

Geralt looked pointedly between Jaskier's legs.

Jaskier rolled his eyes. "Yes, alright, or any other hole. But I do earn significantly less than my female compatriots. Not everyone takes your 'any port in a storm' approach." He nestled in against Geralt's side, tracing patterns over his ribs. "Do you actually have a preference, other than 'not scared of you?'"

Geralt shrugged. "Not really."

"More interested in the soul than the body?" Jaskier guessed, then sat up and prodded at him excitedly, keeping his voice light to hide his interest in the answer. "Is the great Geralt of Rivia a secret romantic, under all that grime and armour?"

Geralt swatted him away. "No. I don't take lovers outside of brothels, and when I'm in them, I don’t care what my partner has between their legs, so long as we both get off." He paused. "I am sorry about that. It's been…a long day."

Jaskier bit back his disappointment. "I accept your apology, and I'm sure you can think of some way to make it up to me. Have you had enough time to recover? I mean, I know I give good head, but I can admit that wasn't my best work." He chanced a look down Geralt's body. "Eh, you seem fine. Let's go."

He climbed on top of Geralt, chest to chest, their legs tangled together as he folded his hands over Geralt's sternum and began pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to his jaw.

"Are you sure it's your lack of a cunt that makes you less popular, and not your godawful manners?" Geralt asked pleasantly, holding him by the hips.

"How dare you. My manners are excellent." Jaskier dug in with his teeth for a second before sitting up just far enough to look him in the eye. "You weren't complaining when I had my mouth on your cock."

"So do that again. I liked the quiet."

"Oh, fuck off. Listen: I've been very patient, but I'd really like to ride you until we both pass out, so if you don’t have any more objections, that's what I'm going to do. Alright?"

"Don't hurt yourself."

"Please. I'm a professional."

And he was, but that was beside the point. As much as he loved living in the lap of luxury, and as much as he enjoyed being admired and fawned over, he really didn't mind a little pain along with his pleasure. When the stretch was just a little too much, the fucking just on the side of too rough—it was like getting manhandled or having his hair pulled. It never failed to send a delicious shiver all the way down his spine. So no, maybe he couldn't fit Geralt down his throat like he wanted (pesky jawbones ruining his fun), but he'd be damned if he wasn't going to take it up the arse.

He slicked Geralt up with oil from the nightstand, bringing him to full hardness with a single touch, pushed two fingers into himself, and called it ready. He could probably use more than the standard prep work he gave himself every evening on the off chance one of his regulars stopped by looking for a quickie, but honestly, he'd waited long enough, and if he didn't get Geralt in him right that minute, he might actually die.

"No, you won't," Geralt replied when he said it aloud, but he was starting to look a bit undone around the edges too.

"You want this as much as I do," Jaskier said, straddling his hips as he held Geralt's cock in one hand behind him, getting everything lined up. "So stop faking."

When he sank down onto it, Geralt's fingers clenched around his hips, digging in, and the Witcher moaned, his head falling back against the pillow. Jaskier moaned too, more theatrically, though he hadn't taken more than an inch yet. He might be desperate for it and he might like a little pain, but he didn't actually want to tear himself in half.

"Oh, fuck that's good," he gasped.

His thighs were shaking with the effort of holding himself up, and he wanted nothing more than to sink down and take it to the hilt, but it was too much too soon. Biting his lips, he rolled his hips in tiny circles, working his way down a fraction of an inch at a time. Under him, Geralt growled—the sound was as good as he'd imagined, and fuck, the temptation to let Geralt flip them over and fuck him into the mattress was a powerful one.

"Hang on," he said, either to Geralt or to himself, he couldn't be sure. He splayed both palms out over Geralt's chest to steady himself, leaning forward as he took it deeper. "Almost there."

"Fuck," Geralt bit out. "Come on—"

Jaskier's arse hit Geralt's thighs as he finally bottomed out and they both held still for a second, panting. It was overwhelming, how full he felt and how tight it was, burning hot and all but splitting him in two.

"Okay," he gasped, his head hanging forward as he tried to adjust. "This is good. This is fine."

"You alright?"

"Yes, fuck, I'm—I'm great. I'm fantastic. Just give me a moment."

"This was your idea," Geralt reminded him.

"Ah, yes, I'm well aware."

Taking a deep breath, Jaskier set a slow, rocking rhythm that was soon excruciating for the both of them. He didn't get to ride on top very often, and he was determined to enjoy the view. And Geralt responded beautifully under him: desperate but trying to look unaffected, even as his skin shone with sweat and his nails dug crescents into Jaskier's hips. The biting pain was a lovely contrast to the deep ache inside him, and between the two sensations, Jaskier writhed and moaned and panted and rode Geralt like he was determined to wring every ounce of self-control from the man—which was exactly true. He wanted to see Geralt come apart and be the cause of it, hear what he sounded like when he really unravelled. The blowjob had been a nice trial run, but neither of them had been at their best. Jaskier wanted to really fuck him and see what happened.

"You're so weirdly polite when you have your cock in me," Jaskier panted, rolling his hips. "Do you not want to pin me down and ravage me? I have to admit, it's what I expected."

"I thought this was what you wanted," Geralt ground out.

"Yes! It is! And I'm having a lovely time up here, riding you like a—" Not a pony. Bigger and much more impressive than a pony. "A stallion. I just—you know, the stories you hear—"

"You thought I'd fuck you like an animal," Geralt supplied.

"Well, yes, rather. Not that this isn't perfect," Jaskier added hastily.

He was getting good at reading the nuance in Geralt's expressions, which generally ranged from flat annoyance to outright glares, but now he looked shuttered, like he had closed himself off. Ah, fuck. Probably shouldn't have compared him to an animal when it was clearly a sensitive issue. Why did he have to open his stupid mouth? Geralt had seemed content to let Jaskier ride him, happy to let him set the pace, and they both could have worked their way up to a really spectacular orgasm if Jaskier had just held his tongue for once in his bloody life.

Idiot.

"I didn't mean—" he began, fumbling as he tried to right their course, but Geralt didn't let him finish. He flipped them over like it was nothing, pulling out and pinning Jaskier on his back, his hands wrapped around Jaskier's wrists and bearing down with his full weight. Jaskier squeaked and held very still, staring wide-eyed up into Geralt's glare.

"Is this what you want?" Geralt asked.

"I'm here in your service," Jaskier breathed. "You should do whatever pleases you."

With a growl, Geralt turned him over, forcing him face-down against the pillow. Jaskier went pliant at his manhandling, thrilled when he should be scared. Even when Geralt bit down, digging his teeth into that junction of muscle where his neck met his shoulder, Jaskier couldn't be afraid of him. He shivered and moaned and spread his legs, wordlessly encouraging Geralt on.

"Fuck," Geralt muttered, the word hot against his skin, and he drove back in, all the way in a single thrust. It would have hurt if Jaskier weren't so turned on. As it was, it felt amazing: like being emptied out and filled with nothing but the Witcher, through and through.

Jaskier keened and buried his face, pushing back for more of it as Geralt crushed their bodies together, holding him close as he fucked him at a punishing pace. He wasn't going to be able to walk tomorrow, maybe longer, and he sure as hell wasn't taking any clients for a few days. He couldn't regret a thing. Distantly, he was aware that he was chanting Geralt's name, almost voicelessly, interspersed with a desperate chorus of _fuck, fuck, fuck_.

Stars burst across his vision as heat flooded his limbs, tensing from the inside out as he writhed on Geralt's cock, desperate for him to hit that sweet spot again. Geralt doubled down, biting and mouthing at him as they both teetered on the brink. Jaskier was ready to beg for it—fuck, he was ready to die for it, he was so close. He hadn't come earlier, a whole evening of pent-up energy boiling inside him, and now that he was finally at Geralt's mercy the way he'd wanted, the damned Witcher wouldn't let him come.

"Please—"

His voice broke on the syllable, but Geralt didn't let up. He kept Jaskier's hands pinned by his head, rubbing up against his prostrate with every thrust, but never enough to bring him over the edge. While they had started fast, Geralt fucking him hard and relentless, now he was agonizingly slow, like he wanted to torture Jaskier to death rather than have mercy and let him finish.

"Not so talkative anymore?" Geralt asked, his voice low in Jaskier's ear.

"Fuck you," Jaskier sobbed. "Please, fuck, I'll do anything you want, just—"

"Tell me you want it."

"Oh, fuck! I do! I want it—I want _you_. Stupid, perfect, gorgeous Witcher, with your perfect, ridiculous body and your growling and the way you act like you're so stoic and untouchable but you're really not—fuck—and your giant cock, want that too, obviously— Gods, please, Geralt, please touch me—"

Geralt shuddered and released one of his hands, sliding his own underneath Jaskier's body to finally, finally grasp hold of his cock. Jaskier pushed his hips up and back to make space, nearly crying by the time Geralt had his fingers wrapped around him. It was fucking bliss, having something warm like that to fuck against, especially with those sword-callouses just the right side of rough against his sensitive skin.

"You're perfect, you're so good, Geralt, you feel so good—"

Geralt tightened his grip and Jaskier came with a shout, the pleasure whiting out his vision for a moment as he went limp and collapsed against the mattress. He felt tingly all over, his limbs leaden as pleasure coursed through him from top to bottom and back again. When he returned to himself, lax and exhausted, Geralt had his teeth buried in the meat of his shoulder, marking him like an animal. He came with a growl before dropping down against Jaskier, their bodies sticking together with sweat. Gradually, their breathing synched, and they lay together for a while, panting as they tried to catch their breath.

"Alright?" Jaskier asked eventually.

Geralt grunted and rolled off him, which was no less than expected. Jaskier stretched from his fingers to his toes, luxuriating in the full-body ache that was barely distinguishable under the pleasantly warm glow of a good orgasm. Oh, he would hurt tomorrow, to be sure, but for now, he felt delicious. He almost didn't want to ruin the moment by investigating the damage done, but he wasn't foolish enough to fall asleep without checking. Gingerly, he pressed one finger between his legs, wincing at the tenderness there, then blushing hot at the feeling of Geralt's seed wet and sticky against his fingers. But there was no blood, so despite his best efforts, he hadn't in fact managed to split himself in two. Good. Excellent. He could go ahead and sleep, then.

Geralt was already asleep, to all appearances: laying on his side, facing away from Jaskier, and not making a sound. Jaskier couldn't shake the feeling that, though they'd both been satisfied, he had somehow managed to fuck things up.

He curled up against Geralt's back like a shell, a hair's breadth away from touching him, and ran one hand delicately over his shoulder. "Geralt. Geralt?"

"Hm?"

"Don't ignore me."

"You told me to do what pleases me."

"Oh, for—"

Taking a grip on Geralt's shoulder, Jaskier turned him onto him back, or rather, Geralt allowed himself to be turned.

"You've got me till the morning, so don't go giving me the cold shoulder until the next time you're ready to fuck me."

Geralt looked impassive.

Jaskier bit his lip. "I'm sorry."

Geralt just watched him.

"For suggesting you'd be an animal in bed. Or at all. I didn't mean it like that. People talk about Witchers like they're uncivilized beasts or that they have no emotions, but they can't both be true. I don't think either of them are." His voice was soft, his eyes downcast as his gaze drifted over Geralt's myriad scars. Bites and claw marks, deep gouges across his body—but knife wounds, too, clearly made by more human fights. Carefully, he traced the marks with one finger, his touch ghosting over Geralt's skin. "You're not a monster, and I didn't want you just because I thought you could fuck me like one."

"You wanted me because I could pay." Geralt's voice was rough, but calm, like he'd expected nothing less.

"A bonus," Jaskier confessed, "but if I saw you in the street or in a tavern, I'd have wanted you just as much. I'd have followed you around like a stray dog until you paid attention to me, and then I'd have worked my way into your bed sooner or later for no coin at all. I'm very persistent."

"I can tell."

Jaskier hesitated. Geralt's skin was warm under his hand, and though he hadn't actually forgiven him—or even admitted he'd been hurt in the first place—he hadn't moved away, either. He had to feel that same magnetic tug that Jaskier did, like their bodies wanted to be joined every minute they were together.

"Kiss me?" Jaskier whispered.

Geralt slowly turned towards him, raising one hand to Jaskier's face, though he waited for Jaskier to close the distance and press their lips together. Jaskier shut his eyes and leaned into it, quietly desperate for that closeness. It wasn't the earlier desperation of wanting to come, but he hated being left alone after sex. If they had a bed as big and rich as this one, it was downright criminal not to take advantage. Without breaking the kiss, he groped for the furs they had kicked to the bottom, pulling them up over their legs as he pressed his whole body against the Witcher, entwining their legs and trapping him there.

"You can't be ready to go again already," Geralt murmured, still kissing him.

"Gods, no. But I'll be damned if you think you can sleep on the far side of the bed without holding me till the next round."

Geralt's eyes blinked open. "You're a cuddler." He sounded resigned.

"Yes, I am. And tonight, you are, too."

Geralt sighed and settled onto his back as Jaskier made a contented noise and nestled in against him, laying his head on his shoulder as Geralt obligingly wrapped his arms around him.

"You make a very good pillow," Jaskier informed him, patting his chest. "Nice and firm."

"Thanks."

His tone was dry, but Jaskier could tell he wasn't actually displeased.

"What are your feelings on Destiny?" Jaskier wondered aloud. He wouldn’t have asked if he weren't so close to sleep, but everything felt hazy and unreal, like the words he spoke didn't have the same meaning as they would if he said them in the daylight.

"We’re not on speaking terms."

"My mother used to tell me a story about soulmates. How sometimes, two people's fates are so entwined that they can recognize each other at a glance, without a word spoken."

"Sounds like a fairy tale."

Jaskier yawned. "Yeah, it does. Still sounds nice, though."

Assured that he wasn't going to be ignored or neglected, Jaskier shut his eyes, feeling inexplicably safe in the Witcher's arm.

"Does that have a scent, too?" he asked sleepily.

"Does what?"

"Contentment, or…happiness, or what have you." He imagined it smelled like sunshine, or wildflowers. Whatever warmth and brightness smelled like.

Geralt was quiet, and if he answered, it wasn't before Jaskier fell asleep.

xXx

Dawn broke gently, her fingers slipping over the horizon until the whole sky was painted gold and periwinkle blue. Normally, Jaskier slept straight through the morning, especially when he'd been given as good a workout as the one he'd got, but this time he woke early. Geralt was already awake, though he hadn't moved. His eyes looked warm in the dawn light, glowing in the few rays that had made their way around the curtains, and his hair looked silky now that it was no longer damp or filthy.

"Morning," Geralt rasped. If Jaskier had thought his voice was gravelly last night, that had nothing on it now. "We slept through the last of our appointment."

"I'm sure we can fit in one more round before the bawd comes to kick you out."

Jaskier stretched, and there was that ache he'd been expecting. He couldn't move an inch without a reminder of what they'd done. If he had to get up and function like a human he might actually die, but what a way to go.

"Hm. Maybe."

"Let me call you another bath, at least. Even I can tell we stink of sex."

"In a minute. Come here."

Geralt drew him into a lazy kiss, his hands roaming and his tongue pushing to meet Jaskier's midway between their mouths, despite the sour taste of morning breath. Jaskier wrinkled his nose but didn't push him off, even though he wished they might have washed their mouths out first. Gods, he could still taste Geralt from last night, which was partly disgusting but mostly hot.

Instead of saying any of that out loud, he slipped his hand between their bodies, working his way south to find Geralt's cock where it was pressed up hard against his thigh.

"Very good morning," he murmured, mouthing at Geralt's jaw and enjoying the rasp of stubble there. "How do you want it? I'm up for anything."

"You can't fit it in your mouth and I don't think your arse is in any state to get fucked right now."

"How dare you, sir—"

Geralt silenced him with another kiss, pushing him onto his back to rub against him. It was nothing like the night before: just lazy warmth and rolling hips like they had all the time in the world. Jaskier wrapped his arms around Geralt's shoulders and enjoyed the ride. They smelled like sex and sweat, but he was still relaxed and pliant from before, and Geralt's hair still smelled like that perfumed soap he had washed it with, so much cleaner than the leather oil and horse he had stank of when he'd first come into the brothel.

Jaskier kind of wanted to get fucked by him when he smelled like that, though, monster guts and all. It was possible he had a problem.

"Fuck," he muttered. He'd really hoped those butterflies had been an illusion born of a good orgasm, and would have dispersed overnight.

"Hm?"

"Nothing, I just—"

_Might have fallen in love with you after a single night. My bad?_

No. Couldn't say that.

_I'm pretty sure we're destined to be together, because I've never felt this way about anyone before. It feels bigger than lust, brighter than love, like you've burrowed your way into the heart of me, and I don't know how to cut you out again._

"Just fuck."

There was nothing better than lazy morning sex, and after they were done, they lay side by side, watching the dust motes dance in the sunbeams.

Eventually, Geralt said, "I should go. Before your bawd comes to make sure you're still in one piece."

"I'm sure she's had someone checking in through the keyhole," Jaskier said dismissively.

He'd be surprised if the girls hadn't been glued to the door all night, waiting to see if the big bad Witcher was going to eat him alive. He hoped they'd got their fill of entertainment. At least no one had come barging in to save him, thank the gods.

Geralt snorted and sat up, swinging his legs off the bed and heading for the bath where he'd left his clothes. Jaskier sat up too, watching him go as a strange feeling coiled its way through his stomach. Not fear, but nerves. Could Geralt smell nervousness? Surely.

On cue, Geralt glanced up in the midst of pulling on his boots, a frown creasing his brow. Jaskier plastered on a hasty smile.

"What," Geralt said flatly.

"What?" Jaskier repeated, his voice pitching up. He winced as Geralt's eyes narrowed. "It's just a shame you have to go, that's all."

"I'm flattered," Geralt said dryly, "but your prices were high enough already without my doubling them."

"You wouldn't have to pay."

He lifted one eyebrow. "Thanks, but I know better than to take compliments from a whore."

The hurt must have shown on Jaskier's face, because Geralt sighed and stepped closer. "It was a good night. I'll be sure to stop here next time I'm in town."

"Sure. We're the best whorehouse on the continent, you know." But his words rang hollow, even to his own ears.

Geralt studied him. "I've insulted you."

Jaskier heaved himself from the bed and donned his own clothes. He disliked being naked for serious conversations, and it seemed Geralt wasn't going to leave without trapping him in one. "It's fine. We both know I'm a whore. I know how I look, and I know how to use that to my advantage around certain types of men. It's why I'm good at this."

"What type of man is that?"

"The ones who like to feel big and strong and powerful, and have something pretty but meaningless hanging off their arm or in their lap for a night. That's not you, though. I don't see a man like you having any need for something pretty. And especially not something useless."

"I don't."

Jaskier smiled. It felt brittle. "And yet, here we are."

"You're not useless."

"No, I'm not, actually."

Geralt had slept through the night like the dead, but he suddenly looked exhausted again. "What do you want from me?"

"Take me with you." He—he hadn't meant to say that. Oh, fuck.

"You're good, but you're not that good. I've no need for a personal whore."

The words were harsh, but the tone was strangely gentle. Well, there was no taking it back now. Jaskier doubled down.

"Your cock thinks otherwise, but that's not what I was suggesting. I told you I was a bard, before this. Let me come with you, and I'll build you a whole new reputation. People look at you and still see the Butcher. With me by your side, I can weave you a new image. Something—not friendly, but less demonized."

"You want to save me." Geralt's voice was wry. "Isn't this conversation supposed to go the other way around?"

"I have quite a comfortable life here, I'll have you know. Have I dreamed of something with considerably more glory and heroics? Yes, naturally. But I'm not asking you to be some sort of white knight for me. I've been getting by happily enough without you."

"Happy getting on your knees for any stranger rich enough and sad enough to pay for a scrap of your company?"

"I like sex! A shocking concept, I know. Do I always have the most ideal partner with whom to get it on? Unfortunately, no, they can't all be Geralt of bloody Rivia. Though rich and sad is hardly the most flattering description of them—you do realize you're including yourself in those words, yes?"

Geralt looked at him, long-sufferingly.

"Whoo boy, we do not have time to unpack that clusterfuck of a self-image. Look: I want to come with you, which means I'm almost certainly going to follow you out of here whether you like it or not. So make it easier on both of us, and just say yes."

"No."

Jaskier rolled his eyes. "Oh, go on. I'm not asking out of sentimentality. This is purely practical." 

That was a lie. Falling in love was a fucking terrible quality in a whore, but the Witcher didn't need to know there were feelings involved, and he definitely didn't need to know it was Destiny. He might not be the emotionless machine people said he was, but he wasn't the type to fall for a one-night stand, and he certainly wasn't the type to be bullied around by fate. Idiot, Jaskier.

"You'll get yourself killed, tagging along with me."

"I can look after myself."

"I need a bard even less than I need a whore."

"Now you're just grasping at excuses."

Throwing caution to the wind, Jaskier crossed the room and closed the space between them, putting both hands on Geralt's chest. He was dressed now, the leather hard and cool under Jaskier's palms. He wanted to strip it off, to get them both in the bath again, to bury his hands in Geralt's hair and say _Look, I know you can be soft. I know you feel things. Just let me in._

"Take me with you," he said softly. "Even if you don't want a bard or a whore or a bedwarmer or someone to sing your praises—don't you want more company than your horse, for once? We don't have to fuck. I could just be your friend."

"I don't have friends."

"Then I can be your first. Go on. Say yes. Let me prove myself."

The Witcher looked lost. "Why?"

"Because—"

He was sick of hearing stories of the world from other people, and only seeing it through windows, and imagining all the things he could be doing, the lives he could be living, people he could meet and monsters and kingdoms and glories he could see if only he weren't cooped up between these four walls.

And because every time they touched, it felt like magic sparking underneath his skin, thrilling and warm, and he had the unshakable feeling that he'd never feel that again with anyone else.

"Because my debt is paid and I have no reason to stay here anymore, besides complacency, which has never really been my thing. And I can't think of anyone I'd rather travel with to see the world than you."

"We've known each other twelve hours," Geralt said tiredly. "Pin your hopes and dreams on someone else." He turned for the door.

"Bollocks—Geralt, wait!"

Geralt paused, one hand on the door.

"It's true that we've only known each other twelve hours, but it doesn't take that long to recognize a muse. You may not be on speaking terms with Destiny, but if you walk out of here, I will follow you. And our paths will keep crossing until one day, even if it's years from now, you'll realize it's inevitable."

"It's not Destiny. It's a whim, and it will pass."

"Like fuck it will." Jaskier spread his arms wide. "Tell me you don't feel a single thing when you look at me. Tell me it means nothing that I'm not afraid of you when everyone else in the world thinks you're a heartless monster. I can make them see you differently! Let me make them love you."

"Like you love me?"

Jaskier's mouth snapped shut.

Geralt shook his head. "That's not real. Goodbye, Jaskier."

Jaskier felt his heart stop, stood still as if struck as Geralt walked away and shut the door behind him. The seconds lengthened into minutes before he could will himself move, and when he finally broke the stillness, he swore and scrambled into action. He grabbed a handful of belongings—a bag, into which he stuffed his favourite clothes, and his lute, which he packed with far more care—before slinging them both over his shoulders and lunging for the door.

"Which way did he go?" he demanded, dashing through the sitting room.

"Here, take this." The bawd pressed a coin purse into his hands. "Your pay from last night. Why? What did he do?"

"He's trying to break my fucking heart. Where did he go?"

"To the stable, for his horse."

Jaskier tore from the brothel, rounded the corner, and dashed to the stable as fast as his feet could carry him. But Geralt had a head start, and if he got his horse ready quickly enough, he'd be lost before Jaskier ever even had him.

"Fucking Witcher, allergic to his fucking feelings," he muttered, skidding to a halt outside the stable.

Geralt was leading a handsome chestnut mare to the road, looking ten times more the great Witcher of legend than he ever had in the soft, dark shadows of the brothel. In the daylight, his black leathers looked battle-hardened, and alongside his mount, he seemed ready to ride into death and glory without looking back. Seeing him like this, Jaskier could hardly imagine him indoors at all. It was like he belonged in the woods and the wilds.

And Jaskier knew how he looked: slight and delicate, flamboyant in his silks and velvet, too accustomed to life's fineries to ever hack it on the open road. A spring flower that would shed its petals after a single season next to Geralt's everlasting redwood. He understood why Geralt turned him down.

But looks were deceiving. He wasn't a garden flower so much as a weed, determined to cling on even in the most inconvenient of places.

"Geralt of Rivia!" he called.

The Witcher paused, his shoulders tensed. "Go home, Jaskier."

"I told you I'd follow you if you left me behind. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not a liar. So think of it this way: either you accept your fate and acknowledge that your horse isn’t the only one who enjoys your company, or cast me aside and let the first monster you come across tear me apart, because I'm not leaving. You're it for me, Geralt. You're the one."

There was a long pause. The sun shone; the birds sang. The horse huffed and flicked her tail at the flies before butting her head against the Witcher's shoulder, as if telling him to get on with it already. He gave her forelock a gentle tug and murmured something in her ear before turning to fix Jaskier with a flat glare.

"Stop being so fucking dramatic. I wouldn't let anything kill you."

Hope surged in his chest like a tidal wave. "You'll let me come, then?"

Geralt snorted and Jaskier waved one hand through the air. "Yes, yes, very funny. But—you'll let me accompany you? As a bard or—I don't care what use you put me to, a whore or a barker or a friend, whatever you like. But I can come?"

"A friend," Geralt said slowly, like he was testing out the word.

Jaskier beamed and bounced forward, taking hold of Geralt's arm. "Don't hurt yourself; we can work up to that. So, where to first?"

"The next town is twenty miles out. We'll reach it by sundown."

The elation of being accepted as a travel companion abruptly plummeted as the reality set in. Normally, fresh air and exercise were lovely, especially in this weather. But at the moment, when he was feeling more than a little tender in certain places… "Ah. That's quite a bit of walking, isn't it?"

Geralt swung into the saddle and nudged the horse forward without looking down. "If you can't keep up, you can't come."

"Right. Well. I can't ride right now anyway, so that's fine. I'll just—wait, hang on, don't leave yet!"

He trotted after the horse and rider, clutching his bags as they flapped around him. Geralt didn't rein his horse in, but Jaskier wasn't imagining the smile that lurked in the corner of his mouth, either.

"You, sir, are a tease."

"Am I."

"A tease and a menace, I'll have you know."

"Save your breath," Geralt advised. "You'll need it, walking at this pace all day."

"Walking all day, fighting monsters all night—or are we fucking all night? You never did specify."

"Shut up."

Jaskier laughed but shut his mouth, adjusting the shoulder straps of his bag as he settled in alongside Geralt's stirrup. But he couldn't help but notice, as they left the streets and buildings behind, that despite Geralt's threats of abandonment, he never urged the horse faster. She walked along sedately, pausing here and there to investigate a weed or a flower sprouting by the roadside, and Geralt never hurried her on.

Jaskier smiled to himself and looped one hand around the stirrup, the sun-warmed leather soft and comforting against his skin. As they left the town behind and the road beneath them turned from hard-packed grey dirt to soft red soil, green fields opened up to either side, broken only by trees in the distance. And in the fields, sunning themselves in between the shady spots of the great tree trunks, were dots of cheerful yellow dandelions, which bloomed without a care in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> You know Geralt was telling Roach all about his trials and tribulations before Jaskier caught up and she was just like, buddy. Get over yourself already.
> 
> Also, I did not give Geralt a knot, but please know that I desperately wanted to.


End file.
